


Those Were My Dreams

by waffles_007



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Boston Bruins, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waffles_007/pseuds/waffles_007
Summary: “I—it was you. You were there. In every one of them.” Jack's normally colorful and lively way of speaking gone, replaced with stuttered and staggered fragments of sentences. “Those were my dreams.”Jack has dreams--not all the time, but enough that in the few short months they've been together, Andy knows he's not getting a wink of sleep until Jack's told him what's on his mind. Always in the past, and they always contain someone--someone Jack can't place, vague, like catching someone out of the corner of your eye, someone he can never put a face to. But then, in 2011 when the Bruins win the Stanley Cup and Jack and Brick are out on the ice surrounded by throngs of people, they touch the cup and suddenly, maybe those weren't just dreams after all.





	Those Were My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [insunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/gifts).



_2011: Vancouver, Canada, Rogers Arena_

_“In the immortal words of David Lee Roth—'this must be just like livin' in paradise, and I don't want to go home!’”_

_“I think you're right, Jack—the atmosphere here is one of celebration. Thirty-nine long years of waiting has just come to an end as your Boston Bruins have won the Stanley Cup.”_

The ice is a thrumming mass of color—white, black, and gold jerseys, the dark wash of suits, and shining bright in the center of it all, being passed from player to player to player and on and on, a glowing silver beacon that symbolizes the hardest earned trophy in all of sports, the Stanley Cup. Brick's hand wraps firmly around Jack's shoulder, squeezing hard, and he smiles, “they did it, Jack. They absolutely did it.”

 

Jack beams back, grinning ear to ear. “That they did. Thirty-nine long years, and seven even longer games—and we're _here_ for it. Did you ever think?”

 

Brick shakes his head. As a former player it was something he always dreamed of, something always just out of reach except for the few—the best of the best—and the Boston Bruins right now, were the best. Although Brick never managed to hoist the fabled cup over his head as a player, right now, right this second, on the scraped and snowed up ice of Rogers Arena, there was Zdeno Chara skating towards him and Jack, cup held out in front of him, extended, signaling that at long last, the two broadcast announcers would get their chance. “Never in a million years.”

 

“Your turn guys!” Zdeno hasn't stopped smiling since it was apparent they were going to win, and right now, as he's handing the cup over to Brick and Jack, that smile isn't diminishing at all. “Glad you're here.”

 

For once in his life Jack is speechless as his hands wrap around the base of the Stanley Cup—the history, the _history_ that this nearly 3 foot tall trophy holds makes him giddy and the fact that he gets to lift it high over his head with Brick, his partner both in the booth and in life, just increases that feeling more than ten-fold to the point that he's practically shaking with excitement.

 

Brick's fingers wrap around the cup end, the silver chalice polished and sparkling and glinting, and in that moment, that exact moment his fingers touch that cup, he feels an electric charge in the air cutting through the cool air from the ice and he staggers.

 

“Jack—Brick?”

 

Zdeno's voice is faint, tickling at the edges of Brick's consciousness, and it feels like the wind's been knocked out of him and for just an instant he thinks 'hell of a time to have a heart attack' before he's no longer standing on the ice at Rogers Arena but instead it's as if he's looking in on another world, another life, another _time_.

 

He smells the sea and feels the spray cool and salty on his face one minute. The next, sulfur and tobacco fills his nostrils and before he can register the sound of gunfire, he's looking at the back of Jack's neck, a thin leather cord holding back Jack's longer hair where it's bound tightly at the nape of his neck and the scent of candle smoke and stale air is all he smells. Seconds later it's dirt under his hands and under his nails and the crackle of a radio in his ear—'cover! Cover!' and the radio goes dead. He flashes forward, far in time to what he thinks is this lifetime, but he’s old—Jack is too—hair completely grey, laugh lines even deeper than they are now, and they’re somewhere—Brick doesn’t know where, but they’re on a porch and they’re looking out over a wide broad lake and their fingers are laced together but it’s gone as suddenly as it came.

 

And then he's back—the shouts and the celebratory noises and the cool crisp of the ice and the sea of white and black and gold and the dark wash of suits and the shining silver of the Stanley Cup. Brick blinks. And blinks again looking over to where Jack's still got his arms in the air holding the cup over his head with his mouth gaping open looking back at Brick like he'd just seen a ghost. “Did—did you?” Brick's voice is dry and it's hard to get the words out because he doesn't even begin to know how to ask if Jack had just felt and seen what he had.

 

“I—it was you. You were there. In every one of them.” Jack's normally colorful and lively way of speaking gone, replaced with stuttered and staggered fragments of sentences. “ _Those were my dreams_.”

 

~-~

 

_1980: Durham, New Hampshire, University of New Hampshire_

 

“Another dream?” Andy doesn't turn over when he hears Jack stirring and pulling himself up to sit against the headboard; he simply lets his arm snake across the tops of Jack's thighs and gives him a reassuring squeeze. It's not that it happens a lot—Jack's dreams—but it happens enough that in the few short months they've been together, Andy knows he's not getting a wink of sleep until Jack's told him what's on his mind.

 

Before Jack answers though, Andy hears the click of the light and a quiet curse as Jack fumbles on the overturned milk crate side table for his glasses. Andy subtly pulls the blankets up a little bit more, up over his eyes to shield him from the harsh white glow of the lamp. It's silent for a few more moments until Jack finally speaks.

 

“Sulfur.” Jack states plainly. “Tobacco.”

 

“Huh?” Andy mumbles through the blanket.

 

“I remember the smell of sulfur and the sweet tang of Virginia tobacco—it lingers, pervasive and ubiquitous.” Jack explains.

 

Andy groans—even at two in the morning listening to Jack makes him feel like he needs a thesaurus just to translate: Jack's a storyteller; dramatic and theatrical. Andy feels Jack's fingers poking him in the side as he continues talking.

 

“There was a campfire—and the distant sounds of musket shots—probably the source of the sulfur smell. Light breeze, from the south. There was a handful of us sitting around the campfire, Billy had a pipe, Dale was spitting in to a can.

 

“I think it was damp,” Jack pauses for a moment and Andy knows without looking that Jack's tapping his lips with his index finger as he thinks, “yeah—it was damp, but not wet. Misty, like morning dampness after camping when you slept in your clothes—chilly.”

 

“Sounds unpleasant.” Andy comments. “Wait—who're Dale and Billy?” Andy doesn't remember Jack ever mentioning friends by those names, but maybe they were old friends from Jack's childhood or guys he met in Colorado the one summer he went out there to train.

 

Jack hums. “That's the most perplexing thing—I know it was Billy and Dale, but I don't _know_ who those guys are. I just know that's what their names were. There was someone else there too—but I could never catch his face.”

 

But Jack stops there, so when Andy realizes Jack isn't going to say anything else for the time being, he says something to fill the space, “dreams are weird like that.”

 

~-~

 

_1862: Pittsburgh Landing, Tennessee, Pre-Dawn_

“Musketry's getting closer.” Billy packs the sweet Virginia tobacco in to his pipe and tamps it down with a dirt covered thumb before striking a match and taking a few puffing breaths.

 

“Been going most of the night.” Dale comments, kicks at the fire with the toe of a worn boot, and spits in to the can to the side of his log seat.

 

“Johnson's not stupid enough to attack, don't think.” Andy, known as Brick to his company, shrugs and goes back to idly rolling a couple of minni ball rifle bullets around in the palm of his hand.

 

Jack isn't convinced. He sits next to Brick—closely, but not close enough to be out of the ordinary, their knees bump from time to time but that's about it. “They've got us outnumbered—it's been quiet—too quiet.”

 

Dale scoffs. “Quiet? Damn musket fire's been going all night.” Billy nods in agreement.

 

“You know what I mean. Where's the boom of the canon? The sound of dirt and rocks raining down?” Jack waves his hands. “I haven't heard a man scream in hours.”

 

Billy makes a face. “That's morbid.”

 

“That's war.” Jack knocks his knee against Brick's for a brief moment to get his attention, tilting his head just barely back towards the encampment. Brick's acknowledgment is almost imperceptible.

 

Jack waits a beat and gets up, stretching his long legs, shaking out his coat, pulling it away from his body. “Everything's damp. Just damp.” He's still muttering under his breath as he walks away.

 

\--

 

The canvas of the tent is rough under Jack's hands and the wooden stake holding up the far end digs in to his back and sways when Brick presses in, pushing his mouth insistently against Jack's.

 

“We don't have long.” Brick says as he works his way from Jack's lips out along Jack's jaw and over to the stubble covered column of Jack's neck.

 

Jack groans. “We shouldn't be doing this—not here—not now.” But he makes no move to stop Brick as Brick's hands come up to his hips and Brick pulls him closer, coarse sky blue wool of their Union fatigue pants rubbing together.

 

“There's never a good time,” Brick mutters against Jack's skin, “not now, not until this is all over.” He rolls his hips as another groan escapes Jack's lips.

 

“Something's not right.” Jack insists through shortened breaths as he matches Brick's motions, “too quiet.”

 

“Then we'll be quick.” Bricks fingers find the button at Jack's waistband, pops it with smooth efficiency and before long he feels Jack let out a shudder as he wraps his hand around Jack's length. Jack's skin is warm—so warm—in contrast to the pervasive early morning damp that clings and permeates everything from tent to uniform to exposed skin.

 

Jack only answers by pulling his hands away from the textured canvas of the tent and his movements are quick, rushed, Brick in his grip before long.

 

Outside, Jack's right, it _is_ too quiet—the distant sounds of musketry have faded and only the rippling sound of the Tennessee River running its course and the quiet murmurs of the others in the encampment stretch like a wet blanket over the landing. Neither of them take note anymore though: inside the tent it's hot breaths and the dry sound of hand on body punctuated by quiet moans and deep throaty grunts as Jack and Brick work together, closer and closer to release.

 

“Brick—” The name whines softly from Jack's lips as his hips stutter and Brick's hand tightens incrementally. It's not long after Brick's almost there too, Jack's hand moving fast and with purpose and right when Brick is pressing his forehead against Jack's shoulder, small beads of sweat adding to the already damp fabric of Jack's fatigue coat, all hell breaks loose in the camp.

 

Something falls hard against the side of the tent and the wooden pole digging in to Jack's back sways again, dangerously this time, and shouts and the heavy sounds of footsteps breaks the isolated bubble they've built for themselves. A musket fires close. Again. Then again. And again. They hear the battle cries of the Confederacy and the wounded cries of their company—their friends—Brick tucks his dick back in to his pants, release forgotten, still stiff but that doesn’t matter anymore. He's loading a minni ball in to his musket, Jack's doing the same and they rush out of the tent.

 

Johnson did attack—he waited until dawn was breaking and from what his spies told him the movements in the encampment were those of rising and the early morning sluggish activities of men who had had the fortune to sleep the night while the others—the ones who were on night watch were just as weary from marching the previous day and spending the dark hours with eyes straining out towards the Tennessee searching and seeking for any signs of life outside their own company.

 

Mist still clung close to the dirt and detritus covered floor of the sparse forest and the greys of the Confederacy and the Blues of the Union all blended together in to one mottled jumble along with the smoke from the muskets: only the familiar voices of their respective companies could tell them apart.

 

“Brick!” Jack's voice cuts through the cacophony, they've been separated, and Jack's momentarily distracted again leveling his musket and firing on what he hopes was grey uniform. Distantly he thinks he hears his name being called back, but it's lost in the fight, lost among the trees and the rush of the Tennessee. Lost.

 

~-~

 

_1979: Durham, New Hampshire, University of New Hampshire_

 

Brick—Andy, Andrew—he reminds himself as he walks down the corridor towards Charlie Holt's office in the administrative building at UNH. He repeats to himself his accomplishments, his drive, his skills, anything he can think of that will convince Holt to give him a spot on the Wildcats roster. “You'll do fine.” Andy's father comments and his mother gives his hand a little squeeze as she knocks on the door. “They're the ones that wanted you.”

 

Moments later, the door opens and a tall, brown haired, bespectacled student emerges, grin wide on his face, still chattering over his shoulder to the older coach about the upcoming game. Brick can't believe this guy plays—he's too lanky, too…Brick doesn't know the word for it but he'd be shocked if the guy who is now hustling away down the hallway with his backpack thrown over one shoulder has ever picked up a stick. He shakes his head and pulls himself back to the office, focuses his attention on Coach Holt and extends his hand in greeting. “Andy—Andrew Brickley, sir.”

 

\--

 

“We're glad to have you, Andy.” Holt pushes back from his desk and guides the Brickley's out of his office and back in to the corridor. “Let's get down to admissions, I'll get you set up with Ms. Carter, she'll get all your paperwork in order, get you signed up for classes—see you tomorrow afternoon at 4.” Holt shakes their hands again, breaking off from the group after he's left them under the care of the admissions councilor.

 

\--

 

“That'll just about do it, Andrew.” Ms. Carter finishes typing away on the typewriter, turning the knob at the end to release the last of the forms before sliding them across the desk towards Mr. Brickley. “We'll just need your signature here,” she points, “and here—along with Andrew's.” Mr. Brickley scratches his name where indicated followed by Brick and Ms. Carter files the admissions forms away in a bright yellow folder with a neatly typed 'Brickley, A.' sticker firmly affixed on the upper tab. “If you could just review this one last time,” Ms. Carter hands a copy of Brick's class schedule across the desk and Brick nods as he reads and confirms that yes, all the information is right. It's a little overwhelming, the whirlwind of Holt and Carter and the forms—all the forms—and picking classes. But like that, he's a member of the Wildcats and has to be at Murkland Hall at 8:15AM the next morning for his first class—he has no idea where that even is.

 

“Jack will be here in a moment, Andrew.” Ms. Carter announces as she hangs up the phone placing the handset back in to the cradle. “He'll give you a quick tour, show you where all your classes are, show you to your dorm—you two will be roommates. He's a nice boy—a senior. He calls the games for the Wildcats, you know.” She lets a fond smile cross her face as she's talking. “I'm sure you two will have plenty to talk about,” she lets out a small laugh, “at least I know Jack will—he's a talker.”

 

Brick isn't sure how to respond to that so he just smiles back at Ms. Carter and folds his hands in his lap and waits.

 

“We don't expect you to move in right away,” Ms. Carter fills the silence, “seeing at this was a bit sudden. But you're close by—Melrose, right?—so take your time bringing your things up, getting settled in—I'm sure you'll figure it out.” Ms. Carter continues to babble for a few moments until the same tall, brown haired, bespectacled guy with the wide smile from before comes bouncing in, every bit as animated as he had been when Brick had last seen him exiting Coach Holt's office.

 

“Jack—Jack Edwards.” Jack extends his hand towards Brick and gives it a firm shake as Brick rises out of his chair. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Brickley.” Jack turns his wide smile to Brick's parents, it's all teeth and laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. “We're glad your son is here—a roommate! Wild! I knew I'd end up with someone—my old roommate graduated last year, went on to grad school in New York. I'm studying communications, broadcasting—sports specifically. I call the Wildcats hockey games—”

 

“Ms. Carter mentioned.” Brick comments, the first word he's been able to get in edgewise since Jack came bursting through the door.

 

Jack lets out a deep hearty laugh. “Of course she did! Her son is the first line winger; one game and he's already got four points—two goals, two apples—she lives and breathes Wildcats hockey.”

 

“So do you, Jack.” Ms. Carter replies with a laugh of her own. “They're good boys—a good team—you're going to be a great addition, Andrew.”

 

\--

 

By the end of the week Brick's fully moved in, his small assortment of belongings tossed on the left half of the dorm room; his big hockey bag full of gear, various posters stuck to the walls, it's not much really—not in comparison to the knick-knacks and general clutter that indicates Jack's side of the room.

 

There's a flurry of papers littering Jack's desk, a transistor radio, a stack of books balanced precariously on the edge covering all sorts of topics ranging from all time hockey statistics, macroeconomics, and the civil war. Brick's fairly sure there's at least a dozen or more books stuffed under the wooden frame of Jack's bed. Jack's side of the room seems to match Jack's personality from what Brick can see and from what he's learned in the last week: a little bit of everything, disorganized chaos. However, there is one spot in the room that isn't any of those things. There's a small spot at the back of Jack's dresser that's clean with the exception of an incredibly random mixture of small oddities (at least they're odd to Brick).

 

There's a pewter inkwell along with a quill that's dull with age, the original shine masked by the antique patina. Next to that, a candlestick, made of two pieces of now rusted iron, hinged in the middle and held with an even more rusted rivet—the end long and pointed. Finally, a four inch by three inch copper plate leaning against the wall, with a raised relief of an eagle barely visible to the eye due to its age and the pitted green layer of corrosion that covers the object.

 

“Shacko hat plate.” Jack had explained when Brick had asked what it was. “From the War of 1812—it would have been the insignia decorating the tall military hats that soldiers from—” Brick had let Jack ramble for a good twenty minutes before he'd finally tuned out.

 

The candlestick it turns out was from the revolutionary war period; the long tapered end was pointed so it could be stuck in to a log or in between the wooden planks that would have decorated the insides of late eighteenth century homes. That was another story that Brick eventually lost track of around the time Jack started explaining what a Stanhope printing press was—Brick's not even sure how he'd made the leap from candlestick to printing press, but with Jack, it wasn't all that surprising.

 

Brick hadn't bothered to ask about the inkwell.

 

\--

 

It's two weeks in to their time as roommates when Brick wakes up to the sound of Jack mumbling something over and over in his sleep.

 

“Root cellar—with me—safe—no—”

 

Brick listens and he hears Jack's blankets rustle when he tosses and turns. Jack continues to mutter, the same words over and over and Brick is about to turn on the light when it stops abruptly and the next sound he hears are soft snores emanating from Jack's bed.

 

The next morning, Brick asks.

 

“You, ah, sleep ok, Jack?” Brick picks through a pile of clothes, pulling out a light sweater and pulling it over his head—the fall in New Hampshire's taken on a crisp tone to the air lately, and although Brick's not planning on spending a lot of time outside, he does have to walk from class to class so he might as well be comfortable doing so.

 

Jack looks up from where he's scratching his pen quickly across the page of a beaten up looking notebook. “Huh?” He writes for a few more moments. “Yeah—yeah, why?” Jack finally looks up over his shoulder to Brick.

 

“Oh—ok. Just, you were talking in your sleep for a while last night—I thought maybe—” Brick breaks off; he's not entirely sure what he thought.

 

Jack looks a little surprised. “Oh jeez—I woke you up, didn't I? I'm sorry. Dreams—funny things, you know?”

 

Brick nods, he supposes dreams are funny things, but to his knowledge he's never talked in his sleep. He's trying to remember if anyone had ever said he had when Jack interrupts his train of thought—it kind of seems like Jack's been speaking for a little before Brick started listening again.

 

“—journal,” Jack points at the beat up notebook, “for my dreams—I write them down when I can remember them, or at least the parts I _can_ remember. I've had this one before, the one I had last night, I flipped back and wouldn't you know it, the only part I can remember is the same part I wrote down before.” Jack chuckles. “I wrote it down again though—thought maybe writing about it would jostle the ole noggin in to remembering.” He taps his index finger against his temple. “By the way, what was I saying?”

 

Brick finishes tying his shoes as he relays the words to Jack. “Root cellar—with me—I think you said 'safe'? Maybe?”

 

“Huh.” Jack chews on his lip mulling over what Brick's just said. “Yeah—yeah, oddest thing though. I said that in my dream to someone, but I don't know who—there was someone there but I never caught his face, it's like—” Jack stops for a minute trying to find the right way to explain. “Like when you see something out of the corner of your eye—it's never quite clear, never quite in focus. You know it's there, but you can't define it, know what I mean?”

 

Brick really doesn't but he's coming to find that it's a little easier sometimes to just agree. “Yeah.”

 

~-~

 

_1775: Concord, Massachusetts, Past Midnight_

The Edwards' house, a two story wooden structure with one kitchen addition at the rear, stands a small way back from the dirt road not far from Mill Brook, surrounded by a low stone wall. Up and down the road, covered by the dark blanket of night, the Minutemen hide, some behind trees, some lying flat on their stomachs behind the low rock wall of the Edwards' land, and still others behind the detached cellars and outbuildings of the surrounding properties.

 

“—It's a bad idea, Brick.” Dale shakes his head, the outline of his face barely visible in the darkness.

 

“You think I don't know that, Dale?” Brick whispers back taking a breath before continuing and curbing the annoyance in his voice. “Sorry—sorry—but if this all goes badly…” Brick trails off leaving his worries unspoken. Dale seems to understand though and he hooks his fingers together creating a makeshift step for Brick to use as leverage. “Thank you.” Brick squeezes Dale's shoulder, a gesture to convey his appreciation as he places one booted foot in to Dale's hands and reaches high for the branch above his head.

 

“You're mad for doing this.” Dale whispers up the tree to where Brick's legs are dangling and he watches as they disappear.

 

“You're madder for helping.” Brick whispers back and he doesn't need the light to know that Dale's shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

 

“Just leave the window open a crack—I'll send up a signal.” Dale doesn't get an answer; he only gets a face full of leaves and hears the quiet rustle of the tree as Brick climbs. Moments later the faint sound of a finger tapping on a window wafts down and Dale leans against the tree, his musket propped up against his thigh.

 

Inside, Jack sits at his desk, the small flicker from his one candle barely enough light to illuminate the notes in front of him—a piece for the _Boston Gazette_ being fleshed out—but Jack's mind is elsewhere. The Regulars were coming—word had traveled from town to town, there was unrest, unease, and out there, Jack knew, Brick was stationed, musket at the ready waiting. Jack startles when he hears the tap on the window, jumps from his chair knocking it back sending it clattering against the wooden floorboards.

 

“You shouldn't be here. I thought you were in Lexington.” Jack lifts the heavy wooden window frame, speaking in a hushed whisper as Brick's legs slide through the opening, followed by the rest of his body. “If they find you—”

 

“They won't—Dale's keeping an eye out for me—I had to see you.” Brick slides the window most of the way shut, leaving a one inch opening at the bottom before pulling Jack towards him, his kiss hard and insistent.

 

“But—” Jack's cut off, Brick's mouth finding his again, Brick's fingers fumbling at the buttons that line the front of Jack's fitted shirt.

 

“The revolution is coming—the Regulars are on their way—” Brick mumbles between kisses as his mouth moves over Jack's skin. “I couldn't leave without seeing you.

 

“We're stationed up and down the road; they won't get by without going through us. They have to cross the creek. It'll be when they're most vulnerable.” Brick's lips move along the column of Jack's neck and Brick can taste and smell the faint traces of shaving soap; he drinks it in, committing the scent to memory in case it's the last time he gets the chance. “We'll strike when they cross.”

 

“Andrew—” Jack's protests die in the back of his throat as Brick's hands skim across his now bare chest; Brick's fingers are cool against his skin, making Jack shiver and gasp when those fingers find the waistband of his trousers.

 

\--

 

Jack's trousers are around his ankles and his hands are splayed across the textured surface of his writing desk—the article for the _Gazette_ getting crumpled and crinkled as he grasps for purchase. “Andrew—my God—Andrew—” Jack pants out as Brick's hands wrap tightly around his hips.

 

Brick lets go with one hand, eventually, while continuing his rhythmic thrusts, reaching up and undoing the leather tie that's holding Jack's hair tight at the nape of his neck. Jack's loose waves tumble across his shoulders and Brick leans in, pressing his nose in, again committing Jack's scent to memory: there's no telling how this war will go.

 

Sweat beads along Brick's hairline, little salty droplets starting to wind their way down his temples, down across his brow. He wipes the sweat away with the back of his hand and presses his forehead against Jack's shoulder. “Jack—this can't be the last—we'll win—we'll gain our independence.”

 

Jack only answers in gasping moans.

 

\--

 

“Brick—Brick!” Dale whispers as loud as he dares, throwing small pebbles from the base of the tree at the window above. There's a light, down the road a way, presumably a lantern, well before the bridge that crosses Mill Brook, but it's there none the less. “Brick—” Dale curses under his breath, making a jump, reaching for the bottom branch but it's too far up to grasp. He can't wait any longer: Dale abandons Brick, grabbing his musket, crouching down and making his way back to the low rock wall. The sounds of the impending fight will surely draw Brick back.

 

\--

 

Brick snaps his hips, rocking Jack against the desk and in to his fisted hand and the litany of colorful curses that spills from Jack's mouth only serve to spur Brick on. “Come on, come on—” Brick mutters against Jack's ear, screwing his eyes shut and continuing to push in to Jack. “I'm so close.”

 

A slight change in Brick's angle and the twist of his wrist draws a broken noise from Jack's lips and Brick feels Jack tightening around him. That's all it takes and Brick's hand, now warm and wet with Jack's orgasm, drops from Jack's body and wraps itself around Jack's bicep, gripping hard enough to bruise as all thought leaves his head.

 

It's a few moments before either one of them speaks, the only sound in the upstairs bedroom the sound of harsh breathing evening out and becoming more regulated. Brick steps back, sliding out from Jack's body and he gives himself a cursory wipe with his hand before tucking himself back in to his military trousers. Jack slumps down on the desk momentarily before Brick is pulling him back up and around in to his arms.

 

“I have to go.” Brick presses his lips to Jack's, tasting him, soft and tender now, so unlike the insistent and demanding kisses when he'd first pulled himself through the window.

 

Jack's about to answer when a single shot rings out, breaking the silence that spreads across the Concord night.

 

“Dammit—it's started.” Brick mutters gravely, hurrying to tuck his shirt back in and straightening his tri-corner hat back on to his head. His hands are on the window frame when he feels Jack's fingers wrapping around his forearm.

 

“Don't—don't go, Andrew—” Jack looks scared in the candlelight, the flickering yellow glow casting shadows across his face. “Go to the root cellar—with me. We'll be safe.” Jack speaks, quickly pulling the iron candleholder from where its long tapered end is wedged between the wall boards.

 

“I can't—you know I can't.” Brick answers and it kills him to say so. “My—our—country needs me.”

 

Jack knows this, but he has to try—there may be victory in this fight against the Regulars, but there may be defeat too. He crushes his lips against Brick's one last time, savoring the feeling as the shots come closer and closer. “I'll write your story when you defeat the Regulars and we gain independence—go!”

 

Brick gives Jack's hand a hard squeeze before climbing back out the window and dropping to the branch below. “I love you, Jack.” It's the last thing Brick says as his feet hit the ground and he packs the gunpowder in to the end of his muzzle.

 

“I love you too, Andrew.”

 

~-~

 

_2007: Watertown, MA_

“Don't you ever dream?” Jack props his head on his elbow and looks inquisitively at Brick.

 

Brick rolls on to his side, matching Jack's pose and shrugs as he's doing so. “No. I don't think so.”

 

Jack's eyebrows rise comically high on his forehead. “Are you serious? Everybody dreams!”

 

Brick rolls his eyes. “Well, how many pucks have you taken to the head? That probably has something to do with it, you know.”

 

Jack reaches out, traces the thin fading scar with the pad of his finger, moving along Brick's lip where he'd been hit back in 1987, losing 5 teeth and requiring thirty stitches. “But I think you'd still dream?”

 

Brick swats Jack's hand away fondly before answering. “I guess I don't remember them, then. I'm not like you—I don't get those vivid, wild dreams that you have.” He bats Jack's hand away when Jack reaches out again to poke at Brick's face. “My dreams are probably just so boring I don't even know I've had them.”

 

It's Jack's turn to roll his eyes this time. “Maybe so—” Jack rolls on to his back and stares up at the ceiling and is quiet for a long moment while he's chewing on his lip—something Brick's learned only means that Jack's collecting his thoughts in to what is sure to be a long drawn out soliloquy. Sure enough, a moment later Jack begins to speak again. “Speaking of wild dreams—”

 

~-~

 

_1620: The Mayflower, the Atlantic Ocean_

The pitch and roll of the ship matches the pitch and roll of Brick's stomach as he leans over the wooden railing of the _Mayflower_ and purges the dried beef and hoppy ale that's been swirling around since he last ate as the large ship crosses the Atlantic. It's not the first time it's happened and it won't be the last, but as the salty sea spray peppers his face with its cooling droplets, he reminds himself that what sits on the other side of the ocean is a chance for a new beginning, a new frontier; the opportunity to break from the Church of England and to worship within new bounds. He heaves one last time, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he straightens up, resting his elbows on the railing.

 

“Here.”

 

A wooden cup finds its way in Brick's line of vision, along with a hand that's spotted with dark ink blotches—Jack. Brick takes the cup, rinses the taste of dried beef and vomit out of his mouth and spits over the railing, taking another swig a moment later, this one, swallowing it down and appreciating the vague coolness of the water as it slides across his tongue. “Thanks.”

 

“Come below deck—the effects of the waves will be less down there.” Jack pulls lightly on the arm of Brick’s loose shirt. “Plus, I found a barrel with a leak in it—free ale!” Jack’s whisper is conspiratory and his grin matches the mischief in his voice. “I could use the break from writing.”

 

Brick groans, his stomach groans, more ale probably isn’t something he needs right now but he follows Jack anyway as Jack descends the narrow wooden ladder that disappears below deck. Down another ladder and finally one more and they’re in the belly of the ship, the lowest deck, the one that’s filled bow to stern with barrel after barrel of ale. It takes a few minutes of poking around in the dim light, but Jack’s face suddenly lights up and he pulls a second flagon out from under his coat. “Huzzah!” Jack leans the barrel over slightly, presses the lip of the cup to where the ale is leaking out of the barrel and before too long it’s half full and Jack’s raising the cup to his mouth.

 

“How did you even find this?” Brick asks; it’s one of probably at least a hundred or so barrels, maybe more.

 

“Couldn’t sleep last night. I had the strangest dream,” Jack pauses and takes another sip before handing the cup over to Brick. “I was on the ice, a big sheet of ice, but inside?”

 

“The ice was inside?” Brick interrupts handing the flagon back. “That’s preposterous.”

 

Jack nods while he’s refilling the cup. “I am fully aware of that—ice? Inside? The only time I’ve ever seen that was when Goodwife Early’s horse tipped the trough inside the barn in December. Even then it was barely frozen. This was different though—it was as if there was a pond of ice inside a large building—it was loud and cool and there were so many people there. They were wearing the most funny clothing too.” Jack breaks for a moment to take a drink. “Yellow, black, and white loose fitting shirts, but they had number on them? It was….it was so strange.”

 

“It sounds it.” Brick agrees as he reaches for the cup, his stomach already feeling much better now that they were away from the steady pitch and roll of the ship that’s amplified up above.

 

“And there was—” Jack pauses looking for the right words. “the only way I can describe it is a giant silver chalice. At least as tall as one of these barrels and everyone was carrying it around.”

 

Brick furrows his eyebrows. “How much did you have to drink before bed?”

 

Jack purses his lips. “Not _that_ much.” He takes another sip and continues. “But what woke me up was the most unsettling thing. A tall man skated over, handed me one end of the chalice and someone else the other end—I didn’t catch his face, it was covered by the chalice—and when I wrapped my fingers around the base I felt—” Jack stops again and shudders. “I don’t even know how to describe it—the feeling in the air when it’s about to storm? When the hair on the back of your neck prickles and the air smells like, I’m not sure, but crisp maybe? Too clean?”

 

Brick shrugs and takes the cup finishing the last of the ale.

 

“I woke with a start, sitting up like a bolt with my heart pounding and I was back on my cot. It was…strange. I couldn’t shake that prickle so I came down here; it’s quiet down here.”

 

Brick nods—it is quiet though, in the upper decks there’s always someone coughing, someone retching, the dampness of the ship seeping in to everyone’s bones, right in to their chests. On the top deck, there’s the yelling of the ship’s crew, the sharp crackling of the sails as they ripple in the breeze, the sounds of smaller children as they weave between the adult’s legs chasing each other around, stretching their legs the only place they can in the cramped confines of the _Mayflower_. “It is quiet.”

 

A smile breaks out across Jacks’ face and before Brick can realize what’s happening, he’s being pushed to sitting on one of the barrels with Jack’s hand square in the middle of his chest. “Very quiet.” Jack brings his finger to his lips and signals silence as he pushes his way between Brick’s legs as he’s kneeling.

 

The only sound Brick lets out is a long, low groan when Jack’s lips wrap around him.

 

~-~

 

_2009: Nashville, TN, Eaglemark Antiques_

“What are we doing here again?” Brick picks up what he supposes is an antique letter opener, flipping it around in his hands for a moment before mock wielding it as a sword and taking a few quick lunges at Jack before putting it back down. Antiques are Jack’s thing: whenever there’s down time or Jack has a _dream_ , Brick finds himself elbow deep in old and dusty and tarnished everything’s telling himself that Jack likes this stuff so he can deal with it. Meanwhile Jack looks happy as clam and insists on picking up anything and _everything_ he can get his hands on.

 

“I’ll know when I see it.”

 

It’s really not an answer and Brick raises his eyes to the ceiling and shakes his head as Jack’s back is turned away from him. At least they have to be at the Bridgestone Arena in two hours so there’s a set time limit of how long Brick’s going to have to wander around aimlessly while Jack rambles on spewing historical tidbits about all the items he finds in his search.

 

Jack’s poking through a bin of military patches and pins muttering to himself when something catches Brick’s eye: it’s not much, in fact it really just looks like a small lead ball but it draws Brick over curiously. It’s a little heavier than Brick would have thought as he rolls it around in the palm of his hand, somewhat cool, the surface dinged and pitted and it’s not a perfect sphere, it probably wasn’t even when whatever it is was made. Brick thinks maybe there’s small indentations where a hammer might have pounded it in to shape? Or maybe a small worn ridge where the seams of a casting might not have been perfect?

 

But there’s a strange feeling surrounding the small ball and Brick can’t put his finger on it—it seems familiar somehow. Comfortable in his hand. Like he _should_ know what it is but he _doesn’t_. He continues to roll it around in the palm of his hand and for just a split second Brick thinks he catches a whiff of pine trees and tobacco but he shakes his head and it’s gone. “Hey, Jack?”

 

Jack takes a moment to look up from where he’s got two small stacks of patches and pins going. “Going to get and maybe going to get.” He explains before really addressing Brick. “What’s up?”

 

“What’s this?” Brick extends his hand palm up, the small ball sitting right in the center.

 

“That’s it!” Jack exclaims and picks the ball up carefully between two fingers and starts inspecting it closely but doesn’t say anything else for a solid minute. Brick clears his throat and Jack startles. “This—it’s what we came here for.”

 

“It…is?” Brick answers skeptically—Jack had literally said he didn’t know what he was looking for when they’d walked in.

 

“Yes!” Jack rubs his thumb, then his shirt for a moment on the ball trying to wipe away some of the years. “It’s a minni ball, ammunition that was used in the Civil War.”

 

“And…” Brick questions.

 

“My dream—it was about the Civil War—I swear, sometimes I think you aren’t listening.” Jack elbows Brick fondly.

 

“Sometimes I think you’re talking while I’m still asleep.” Brick counters elbowing back.

 

Jack rolls his eyes. “Regardless—that dream last night, _that I told you about this morning while you were fully awake drinking coffee_ , was about the Civil War—it’s the same one I’ve had a couple times, I had to flip back through my journals—” Scanning all his old journals and putting them in his drop box is something Jack had spent the summer doing, ‘so I can go back and reference any dreams I have’, he’d explained. Apparently, it was useful—Brick never would have guessed. “But it was the same dream.”

 

~-~

 

_2011: Watertown, MA_

They don’t talk much about what happened on the ice with the cup, it’s been too busy and neither of them could quite form the thoughts and words to describe what they’d felt and seen, until they’re back home and Brick is emptying his suitcase in to the laundry basket. Jack’s been oddly quiet ever since the moment he and Brick touched the cup and they were thrown back in time, back in to what Jack had always assumed were his dreams. Jack would be inclined to assume they still were his _dreams_ , except for the fact that Brick had seen them too—that’s not…that’s not dreams, is it?

 

“So you—“ Jack starts then stops, pausing, looking to put his thoughts in to a cohesive sentence. “The cup—did you?” He stops again shaking his head.

 

Brick drops the last of his clothing in to the laundry basket and leans against the dresser—the one that is lined with all of Jack’s knick-knacks. He idly picks up the minni ball they’d picked up in Nashville, rolling it around in his palm and for a moment he’s gone again, no longer in the bedroom but somewhere out near a river surrounded by trees and tents and the blanket of early morning fog. “That was the civil war, wasn’t it? Where I had this?” Referencing the small round bullet in his hand.

 

Jack swallows and nods. “Yes.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Do you…do you remember what happened next?”

 

Brick closes his eyes for a brief second, searching for that moment again before speaking. “I think so—we were in the tent—“ He coughs, and makes a small motion with his hand. “You know…uh, together. And then—all hell broke loose. I remember grabbing my gun, running out of the tent. The confederacy, the grey uniforms. I saw Dale go down and I ran after his shooter.”

 

“I called your name.”

 

“I called back.”

 

“I never—“

 

“I was captured. I think they…” Brick pauses. “I don’t think I lived?”

 

Jack sits down hard on the bed. In his dream, or what he thought was his dream, the last thing he’d remembered was calling for Brick and faintly hearing his answering call. But that’s it—no more. It couldn’t be a dream if Brick knew what happened _after._

 

Brick puts the minni ball back down on the dresser and picks up the rusted candlestick with the pointed end. He runs his fingers down its length, to the small rivet that holds the rough pieces together as he sees the low stone wall, the tree outside Jack’s window, the desk. “Lexington?”

 

Jack shakes his head. “Concord.”

 

“You wanted me to stay.”

 

“I did.”

 

“I couldn’t.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You wrote about me, didn’t you? Like you said you would.” Brick tilts his head in question as he thinks, trying hard to grasp at what he now thinks are memories. “I remember—I was in Philadelphia, someone had a copy of the _Boston Gazette_ , you wrote about the battle at Mill Creek.”

 

Jack nods, memories slowly coming back to him too the longer they talk. “I hid in the root cellar. By the time I came out you were gone—everyone was gone—except…” He doesn’t want to mention the dead soldiers littering the road, the fields, his yard: Brick hadn’t been one of them. “What happened?”

 

“We marched. And we fought. For months.” Brick grasps at his thoughts, catching small pieces here and there. “For many months. We ended up in Pennsylvania and I…I’m not sure after that.”

 

“I never saw you again.” Jack comments quietly.

 

“I know.” Brick places the candleholder back on the dresser and comes to sit next to Jack on the bed. “Those weren’t dreams, were they?”

 

It’s a long moment before Jack speaks. “I—they couldn’t be—there’s no way you’d know any of those details if they were.” Jack gets up suddenly, rushes over to the closet and digs for a moment, pulling out an old milk crate full of worn and aging journals. He sits cross-legged on the floor, pulling book after book out of the crate and flipping through the pages furiously, scanning his written words with the tip of his finger.

 

“What are you—“ Brick asks but Jack interrupts him throwing his hand up in the air signaling ‘wait’ so Brick waits.

 

“What happened in Bathelemont?”

 

“What?” Brick knits his eyebrows together in confusion.

 

Jacks finger skims the page again. “Bathelemont—France. I wrote here that I was in a trench, surrounded by dirt and soldiers, it was World War I. There was gunfire, artillery—a constant barrage of raining dirt and mortar blasts.”

 

Brick’s eyes go wide and he _knows_ , he was _there_. “I was there—“

 

“You were right next to me when it happened, weren’t you?”

 

Brick swallows and nods, he remembers. “The first blast was right behind us, I remember getting covered in dirt and rocks, I remember them clanking off my helmet. I tried to move—I couldn’t and it happened again—right on top of us.”

 

Jack stays silent.

 

“I don’t remember anything after that—I don’t think there was an after. I think it was a direct hit.”

 

Jack picks up another journal, flips through the pages and they spend the next hour with Jack reading parts of his dreams and Brick filling in the rest—the parts that happened after Jack had woken up. Jack finally puts down the journals, littering the floor in front of him now, all of them open to random pages with what used to be random dreams but now were turning out to be just books and books of memories of past lives he’d lived—with Brick.

 

“The cup did this, didn’t it.” It’s not really a question, more of a statement as Brick’s mind floods with more and more memories of past lives and past times, all of them including Jack in some way or another. “When we touched it—that’s when I _remembered_.”

 

Jack nods, agreeing. He doesn’t know how it happened, what caused the cup to throw them back in time and caused Brick’s head to be flooded with memories, but he’s glad right now that it did. The knowledge that in every single lifetime it’s always been him and Brick, Brick and him, and it’s comforting in a way Jack can’t even begin to explain. The one thing that saddens him though is that through all the memories they’ve built together and all the ones they’d just sorted through, they always ended in the same way: one of them gone, never seeing the other again.

 

Jack groans as he unfolds his legs, stretching as he gets up and comes to sit next to Brick back on the bed. He wraps his hand lightly around Brick’s neck rubbing his thumb along Brick’s skin.  He’s solemn when he speaks. “In every life we spent together, we always lost each other, I don’t want that in this life.”

 

Brick tilts his head. “Didn’t you see?”

 

Jack wrinkles his forehead. “See what?”

 

“When we touched the cup—didn’t you see us in the end—together?” Brick thinks back to the lake and the porch.

 

Jack shakes his head, the last thing he remembers is hearing Brick yelling for cover and the radio going dead and then he was standing back on the ice with Zdeno’s concerned face looking down on them and he tells Brick this.

 

Brick starts to smile and he takes Jack’s hand from his neck and laces their fingers together, resting them on his thigh and tells Jack, tells him about the lake and the porch and Jack’s deep laugh lines and his head of grey hair streaked with white. “I don’t know why it took this many lifetimes, Jack, but we get our happy ending in this one. I _know_ it.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. 1862: The Battle of Shiloh. Fought on April 6-7, near Pittsburgh Landing, General Johnson of the Confederacy landed a surprise attack on the Union army driving them back. Johnson was killed the first day. The Union army received reinforcements and pushed the Confederacy back until P.G.T. Beauregard (who replaced Johnson) withdrew his troops.  
> http://www.civilwar.org/battlefields/shiloh.html?referrer=https://www.google.com/
> 
> 2\. 1775: Concord, Ma. The Edward's home is modeled after the Meriam House, the historical site of the running battle between the British Soldiers and Provincials that extended from Concord to Boston. Soldiers were stationed in the general area and began firing at the British as they filed over Mill Brook. Although the battle began at mid-day, for purposes of the story, it has been changed to past midnight.  
> https://www.nps.gov/parkhistory/online_books/mima/meriam.pdf
> 
> 3\. I've chosen to move Jack's time at UNH to graduating in 1980 rather than '79 as it fits the narrative and meshes with Brick's time at UNH. Also, I've taken the liberty of assuming they both would have had a chance to lift the cup at Rogers Arena although I am 100% unsure of what actually transpired—I was not able to find anything other than a pic of Jack and Brick on the ice with Jack looking like the most excited man in the universe. 
> 
> 4\. For a random music rec, try this on for size. Ke$ha – Past Lives https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7Z_Fls4y3k


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